


Moving On

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Retirement, non-canonical character alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trunks were packed, but that's not all the baggage. Written for JWP #31.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving On

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Sentimental verging on soppy. Creative interpretation/alteration of canon. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.
> 
> JWP #31: The End in the Beginning. Every story's beginning is some other story's end.

The trunks were all packed and neatly stacked. Curtains and rugs had been stripped away, and either bundled for carting to their new home or to the trash heap, depending on their condition. The furniture, artwork, and equipment were all wrapped up and carried out, ready for the journey. Even as I watched, more men came and carried away the trunks, until nothing was left but an empty room.  
  
Denuded of all softening and concealing details, the room showed all the signs of many, many years of residency and hard usage.  The wood floors were stained and scratched. The walls had seen abuse no amount of paint, plaster, or wallpaper could entirely hide. Occasional dark spots showed where gas-lamps had burned too long or too brightly.  Even the ceiling showed cracks and dark patches, the years of soot and smoke and chemical experiments making patterns no amount of cleaning could entirely hide. And the fireplace! The brass-work still shone, despite the dents, but nothing could disguise the deposits of so many years of coal-fires on the brick and wood that surrounded it. And the mantelpiece was a battered disaster.  
  
I heard the slow steps on the stairs long before Dr. Watson made his appearance. He leaned heavily on his walking-stick, and beneath his business-like demeanor, he looked tired and sad. He looked around at the empty room, perhaps struck, as I was, at how different it seemed. Or perhaps he was simply lost in memories. Certainly he never noticed anyone else until a gentle touch on his arm caused him to start.  
  
“It’s time, Watson.” Mr. Holmes’ voice was unusually soft. I could only remember hearing him sound so a few times in all the years we knew each other. “The movers have left, and the cab is at the door. If we don’t leave soon, we’ll be at some risk of missing our train.”  
  
Dr. Watson sighed. “Of course, Holmes. I’ll be right down. I just wanted…” His voice trailed off.  
  
As usual, Mr. Holmes had no difficulty discerning the truth of the matter. “This isn’t home anymore, my dear fellow. We had many good years here, but the world has changed, and it is time for us to move on. After all, you’ve been after me to retire for years now.”  
  
A smile formed underneath Dr. Watson’s moustache. “I know, and I should be glad you’ve finally listened to me. I never thought I’d see the day. It’s just – I can’t really imagine life without Baker Street.”  
  
Mr. Holmes’ grip tightened on Dr. Watson’s arm. “Fortunately for us both, you shan’t have to imagine it, for you will be right there with me, living it. Before you know it, you’ll be engrossed in all the minutiae of a semi-retired country doctor’s life, and I shall regale you with all my researches on the honey-bee.” He reached up with his other hand and touched Dr. Watson on the forehead. “And 221B Baker Street will continue to live on as it always has, in that marvelous imagination of yours. You’ll write about it for years to come, and in your stories, it need never change.”  
  
“I don’t know about that.” Dr. Watson’s voice was husky now as he visibly fought emotion. “Eventually I may need to write of my leaving Baker Street again, or possibly even your retirement to some remote location, just to keep ourselves safe.”  
  
A slight shrug rippled Mr. Holmes’ thin shoulders. “If you must, I’m sure you’ll do a splendid job of it and send me off to Sussex or some wild place. You’ve certainly written far less fantastical things in your tales. You’ve fooled the general public for years about most things, after all. They’ve certainly never met the John Watson I know.”  
  
The smile grew, and Dr. Watson’s voice became stronger. “Or the real Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
“Thank God for that.” Mr. Holmes barked out that high, singular laugh of his before growing solemn. “But our day here is done. Lestrade’s retired, as have most of those we could rely on at the Yard. The new methodology of fingerprints and evidence-gathering is growing by leaps and bounds, and all the young Inspectors are wild for it. Criminals these days are more inclined to violence than cleverness, and those few with any creativity are finding service with greedy governments, not international criminal organizations. Brother Mycroft is right, as usual: we could both do more good turning our attention elsewhere than the too-commonplace London criminal world.”  
  
“You could, you mean.” Dr. Watson said it without pride or jealousy. “And I know you’re right. It’s time. But I shall miss this place all the same.”  
  
“Yes.” Again, Mr. Holmes heard what Dr. Watson hadn’t said aloud. “I will miss her too.”  
  
“At least it was swift. She didn’t suffer. I doubt she even felt anything.” Dr. Watson cleared his throat. “Holmes, do you think she knew?”  
  
I bristled. Of course I knew. You can’t be a successful landlady in London without developing a keen eye – and without learning when to keep it half-shut. There’s reasons why I only kept day-help, and why I was always particular about the who did the cleaning and the linens in their rooms.  
  
Mr. Holmes snorted. “I think there was very little Martha Hudson didn’t know.”  
  
“She was very good to us.”  
  
“Yes, she was.” He cleared his throat. “Now come along, John, or you might accuse me of being sentimental.”  
  
“Heaven forbid.” Dr. Watson shifted his weight so he leaned more on Mr. Holmes’ arm than his cane, and together the two men left their sitting-room for the last time.  
  
Yes, I had been good to them, and I would be still. I knew that others might come, curiosity-seekers or worse, searching for clues or memorabilia of my world-famous tenants. They’d find nothing, not if I had anything to say to it. And soon enough, some careless workman or vandal would give me the spark I needed. It wouldn’t take much to send this old place up in a blaze.  
  
A good landlady always anticipates her tenants’ needs. And once my work was done, perhaps I’d move on – but not, by choice, until I had a chance to check in and make sure that my boys were properly settled in their new home. That would be as happy a sight as any to take on with me to Heaven.


End file.
